


Reality's Not Worth the Paper it's Written On

by Cyber Moggy (janet_mayfire)



Series: The Edge of Reality [1]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Being fictional is hard work, Crack, Drinking, Gen, Tentacle Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-28
Updated: 2017-10-28
Packaged: 2019-01-25 08:14:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12526952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/janet_mayfire/pseuds/Cyber%20Moggy
Summary: Steve needs to spend an evening away from the gang.  The club he walks into reveals a truth that explains everything.





	Reality's Not Worth the Paper it's Written On

From the outside, the place looked like an exclusive nightclub, of the sort that he would never have had the confidence to enter, had Tony not dragged him into one once or twice. It was so exclusive, in fact, that it didn’t advertise its presence at all. The only reason he realised that the place even was a nightclub was because there was a bouncer standing outside the door, quietly preventing people from going in.

 

Steve was still a little bit surprised that the bouncer had let him in – the fellow looked like a well-dressed pirate, and had been turning away people who were much more expensively (and better) dressed than he was. But the bouncer had smiled at Steve when he approached, and Steve had accepted the subtle invitation to enter with carefully unexpressed relief.

 

High-class nightclubs were not the kind of places that a poor kid from depression-era Brooklyn had any place in being. Deep in his soul, Steve knew that. But he had a credit card from Tony that, he had been told, was expressly for the purposes of entertainment.  And he had also been told (by Tony) that he had every right to go into high-class nightclubs if he wanted.  Normally, he didn’t want.  Even high-class nightclubs tended to be full of people who recognised him and wanted to be fans.  Tonight, though, he needed the distraction.  Even if it meant faking a smile regularly.

 

His mind shied away from why. Just as it shied away from why he was here alone, instead of having one of the others along for company. He wanted to be away from them all.  To sit in a corner with a beer whilst life happened around him, to other people.  Just for a while.

 

Inside the club, he was startled to discover that it looked an awful lot like an old-fashioned, WW2 era London bar, much like the ones he used to spend time in with the Howlin’ Commandos, way-back-when (although it still only felt like a few years ago, instead of a lifetime. Like Dum-Dum and Morita were going to emerge from the crowd and offer him a bourbon on the rocks in yet another misguided and inevitably unsuccessful attempt to get the Cap embarrasingly drunk.). No dance floor, just tables, chairs, a bar stocked with every form of alcohol known to man, and a dark, rich, wooden atmosphere.

 

He wasn’t surprised to find that the number of people inside was comfortable. The bouncer was clearly one of the good ones – one of the ones who knew exactly how many people made a good crowd and kept very precise tabs on how many people were in there at any given time.

 

What did surprise him was that the bartender appeared to be a giant purple octopus. And it didn’t appear to be a costume.  Or a robot.  Or even a remote-controlled something or other.  That said, none of the patrons appeared to be in any way concerned that they were being served by a giant octopus, so he decided to go with the flow.

 

Paying attention to the way people behaved was one of the best methods that Steve had found of figuring out if anything really, truly dangerous was taking place (and the 21 st century was still far enough away from normal, even after several years, that he couldn’t take anything for granted.). This place was starting to put some serious ticks on the “weird” checklist, but so far, he hadn’t put any in the “threat” section.

 

He went to the bar and waited for the octopus to cast an eye his way.  As he did, he took a closer look at some of the other people in the place.  

 

A man in a hooded purple jumpsuit was talking to a young woman, similarly clad, in one of the booths.  They appeared to be using sign-language, and Steve could see a couple of bows, with quivers of arrows, under their table.

 

A tentacle monster sat in another booth, with somebody who closely resembled Tony.  He was well-wrapped in tentacles, although he had his hands free and appeared to be perfectly comfortable and relaxed.  As he watched, the monster said something in his ear that made “Tony” chuckle.

 

Clint was sitting by himself in another corner, with a glass of something alcoholic in front of him.  He looked fairly disgruntled about something and, as Steve watched, scowled at somebody who approached him until they went away again.

 

“What can I get you, Captain?”

 

Steve asked for (and received) a bourbon.  “Interesting place, this,” he said.

 

The octopus smiled.  “It’s your first time, then?”

 

Steve nodded.

 

“Well then,” he said.  “Welcome to the Edge of Reality, the bar that sits somewhere between real life and somebody else’s diseased imagination.”

 

Steve stared at him.  Then, he turned and looked at the man wrapped up in tentacles.  “That man over there.  That isn’t just somebody who happens to resemble Tony, is it?  Even though I know perfectly well that Tony is back in his workshop, hiding from the rest of us.”

 

“Nope,” the octopus confirmed.  “Did you come out of Civil War with a childish hatred of Tony Stark?”

 

Steve pulled up a bar stool, and sat down with a groan.  “It’s completely irrational,” he said.  “Somehow, every time something important happens, all common decency deserts me.  And the others, too.  We’re left with this unsupportable distrust of Tony.  And it’s really getting me down.  Because Tony doesn’t deserve it.”

 

The octopus blinked in surprise.  “I must admit, I was expecting a childish rant, not angst,” he said.  “Well, you’re in the right place.  Quite a few of the people here have been on the receiving end of bad characterisation.  For example, that version of Clint in the booth over there has been taking part in a fic involving non-sexual age-play.  He’s not unhappy about the non-sexual part - but the guy has a wife and children.  Fic where he has to behave like his youngest really gets him down.”

 

“Talking about me, Alphonse?” the antisocial Clint called over.

 

“Yup,” the octopus confirmed.  “Our new Cap here has been out of character.”

 

The antisocial Clint groaned sympathetically.  “Get yourself a drink and come on over,” he invited.  “We can exchange sob stories.”

 

“Wait,” Steve said.  “Your name is Alphonse?”

 

The octopus nodded.  “My father was turned into calamari rings in a chic French restaurant not long before I was born.  She named me in honor of the event.”

 

Steve nodded thoughtfully, and went to join Clint.

 

“I come here for a couple of drinks before I head home to my wife and kids,” Clint explained as Steve sat down.  “Get the worst of the sulking out of my system before I start behaving like a responsible adult again.  I don’t think she knows about the Edge, but at least when I get home I can be an adult around her instead of expecting her to cope with yet another toddler.  So.  What brings you into a place like this all on your lonesome?”

 

Steve grimaced.  “I wanted to get away from the others.  All we seem to be able to do is sit around and obsessively moan about Tony.  I know I’m being stupid.  I know that the evidence is against me.  But when I’m with them, I just can’t seem to stop.”

 

Clint patted his arm sympathetically.  “That’s probably why you’re here.  When you know you’re being irrational and need to get your brains back, that’s when the Edge turns up.”

 

Steve felt a smile spread across his face, and knew that, somehow, he’d come to the right place.  “So,” he said.  “Why do you need time off to behave like a responsible adult?  I know about Laura and your kids, but…”

 

Clint sipped his drink, and leaned back in his chair.  “Well, Alphonse mentioned the whole Age Play business.  Do you understand what he was on about?”

 

Steve frowned thoughtfully.  “If I’m right - and please remember that I was educated in the depression and might be jumping to wild conclusions - you’re saying that whenever life gets too stressful for you, you regress to being a baby, until you feel like you’re up to being an adult again.”

 

Clint raised his glass in approval.  “Right.  Except that regressing to babyhood isn’t my favourite way of unwinding after a hard day.”

 

Steve nodded in agreement.  “Tony replaces the targets on a regular basis when you’ve had a hard day.  Like me and the punching bags.”

 

“But it’s impossible to stop myself.  My body is suddenly completely out of my control.”

 

Steve’s eyes widened slightly.  “Like whenever somebody says something in support of Tony.  It’s as though somebody takes over my mouth and the shit that spews out of it is completely out of line.  And I wouldn’t go saying things like that in a million years.”

 

“Is this a private pity party, or can anybody join in?”  asked a voice from somewhere down near the floor.

 

Steve jumped, and then looked down to see the tentacle monster that had been wrapped around Tony.

 

“Hey, Bucky.  How’re you doing?” Clint asked.

 

“Goin’ stir crazy in this place,” the tentacle monster admitted, hoisting itself up next to Steve.  “There ain’t too many people prepared to write fanfic where Bucky’s a tentacle monster, you know?”

 

“B….Bucky?”

 

“Yup,” the monster replied with relish.  “I’m an alternate version from the kind of Bucky you’d be used to.”

 

“How many of you are there?”

 

“How many alternate Buckys?”

 

Steve nodded.

 

“Let’s see…. There’s the standard canon version - one arm only and currently cryogenically frozen in Wakanda.  There’s the one who stayed in the States after Winter Soldier came out - he’s got two arms, usually winds up going to Tony for help, and has an ever-growing set of detachable arms to meet the requirements of whoever’s writing the story.  And there’s me, who got picked up by a mad scientist and experimented on.”

 

“There are two versions of me,” Clint added.  “The other one is the guy in purple over there communicating in sign language.  There are three Tonys - one is the version you know, one who is a lot taller and comes from the same version of reality as the purple me, and one who is female.”

 

“You’re the only Steve we’ve ever had in here, though,” Bucky said.

 

“Okay,” Steve said, his head spinning.  “Back up a bit.  Earlier, you said something about the requirements of whoever’s writing the story.  Alphonse said something about fiction, too.”

 

Clint nodded.  “It’s the key to the whole business.  We are fictional characters.  We get trotted out to take part in fanfiction.”

 

Steve downed the remains of his bourbon in one shot and slammed the empty glass onto the table.  “Fanfiction,” he repeated.  “I’ve read one or two pieces of fanfiction about us.  That explains everything.”  He went to take another drink and realised that his glass was already empty.  Getting out of his seat, he headed back to the bar.  “Alphonse?” he said when the bartender looked in his direction.  “Got anything stronger?”

 

Alphonse chuckled.  “They’ve told you about being fictional, then,” he said as he poured a shot of something golden into Steve’s glass.  “There you go.  Asgardian mead.”

 

“You, sir, are a treasure.”


End file.
